And the ladies vented their spite. They devoured each other before the shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp rivalry of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy felt by the saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen, those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a servant's humility when serving a ten sou purchase.
“Don't speak of them,” said Henriette, by way of conclusion, “a wretched lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.”
Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched by his graceful command over himself that he changed the conversation, returning to the fêtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair.
“You will allow me?”
“Certainly, my dear,” replied Madame Marty. “I'll do the honours of the house for you.”
She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards Baron Hartmann, saying: “You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?”
“Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your little drawing-room.”